


Better After the Rain

by StarsandJellyfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Sam Winchester Remembers Lucifer's Cage, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandJellyfish/pseuds/StarsandJellyfish
Summary: After a hunt in the rain, Sam is freezing. It's bringing back memories of the Cage, and Sam is starting to panic. Luckily, Dean knows just what to do to help Sam relax.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Better After the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and thank you for taking the time to read this. I'm sure this has been done before, probably over-done, but I had an idea and I needed to write it. I hope you enjoy it, and that the boys aren't too out of character. I tried to keep them in character while showing their softer sides. Anyway, like I said, I hope this read is fun for you. :)

Better After the Rain

Sam shivered on the leather bench seat of the Impala, shifting to try to get closer to the small cloud of heat coming out of the ancient heating system. It wasn’t much, but it did provide him a clammy puff of warmth against his neck and chin. He was going to reposition, try to dry out his water-clumped hair, until he felt a slick hand on his shoulder shoving him over. The leather of the seats let out a soft squeak as his soaked jeans slid across it.

“Dude, don’t monopolise the heater,” Dean complained, white-cold fingers wrapping back around the steering wheel of the car. “You’re not the only one the storm was out to get tonight.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his wet-sticky-cold hands together, frowning as his knuckles caught on each other. “Cold.”

He was holding back a shiver.

“Tell me about it,” Dean grouched, lifting up one side of his jacket and letting it flop back against his chest. “I could wring myself out right about now.” He glanced briefly down at the footwell beneath him, just fast enough that Sam didn’t tell him to put his eyes back on the road. “Should probably have wrung ourselves out, actually.”

“You wanted us to take our clothes off out there?” Sam squinted at Dean, huddling himself down with folded arms into the corner next to the door, wishing there weren’t a draft coming in from the freshly-cracked window. “What, you wanted us to freeze to death?”

“Might have been more fun than wrestling that goblin-whatever in the muck,” Dean pointed out, flicking on the blinker into the motel. Sam let out a sigh of relief that they were nearly back. “We’re here.”

“First shower,” Sam called, popping the door open before Dean had fully pulled into the parking space. He couldn’t hold back his shivering anymore, so pulling the handle took more effort than it should have done. “So cold, Man.”

Normally, Sam radiated heat like a furnace, but when he got wet, his body temperature dropped far further than Dean’s did, leaving him much colder. Not to mention the way it reminded him of Lucifer, of being in the Cage. Those were thoughts he shook off as quickly as he could.

He knew Dean was undoubtedly cold, but he would be doing much better than Sam. Checking behind him, just to be sure, Sam confirmed that his brother wasn’t shivering. Instead, he was climbing out the car, grumbling lowly about the water ruining the upholstery or something, head shaking in disappointment.

Relieved, Sam hurried to their room door and caught the keys that came flying towards his head on instinct. Before long, his shaking fingers had inserted the key into the lock and turned it, Sam letting out a weak chuckle as he heard the tumblers turning in the lock.

Pushing the door open, Sam stepped through into the motel, breathing heavily to control his shivering. The room smelled unclean and a little weird, especially now he was used to the Bunker and it’s smell of old books and whatever Dean was cooking, but it was providing some much-needed shelter from the rainstorm outside.

Reaching the bathroom door, Sam turned to glance at Dean again. He was standing under the overhang outside their motel, wringing the water from his jacket, one of Sam’s own plaid shirts exposed to the elements. Sam smiled, shaking his head. Dean had got much more concerned about cleanliness ever since they’d moved into the Bunker, and he knew Dean was going to give him hell for the muddy wet footprints he’d tracked across the carpet. He didn’t care right then, though, heading into the bathroom and reaching out with trembling fingers to turn the shower on.

There was a thunk.

Nothing happened.

Gritting his teeth and letting out a soft growl, Sam turned the knob off, then on again, hoping that would solve it. It didn’t. Instead, the shower gave an odd rattling noise, as if it were going to explode, then dumped out some brown-sludge water in a disgusting little puddle at the bottom of the tub. Sam thought he might cry, just for a second. He was _too cold_. And God, but if he didn’t get warm soon, he might not be able to press away the thoughts of Lucifer and the Cage and if he didn’t get rid of those thoughts then… Then… Well, it wouldn’t be good.

Trying to get his breathing back under control, feeling the thoughts intruding at the edges of his thoughts, Sam cried out, “Dean! Dean!”

Dean came running immediately, Sam’s shirt hanging off of one shoulder in a heavy roll of material. A gun was held in his freezing fingers, wrinkly from being so wet.

“What is it, Sammy?” He asked, eyes darting around the room. “Where’s the fire?”

“No fire, Dean,” Sam moved closer, searching for the body-heat Dean would be giving out into the freezing bathroom. “The shower won’t turn on.”

“Really?” Dean raised an eyebrow, fixing piercing green eyes on Sam. “You called me in here like that because you couldn’t work the shower?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam stressed, hugging himself. “I’m cold.”

It took a few moments, but understanding seemed to light in Dean’s eyes, because he nodded once and reached up to pat Sam’s shoulder, knocking the flannel hanging open across his chest, exposing his black t-shirt, back into place with the movement.

“Let’s see if I can get it working, then,” he grinned, tucking his gun into the back of his pants, then wiggling his fingers. “A bit of mechanic’s magic, huh?”

“Sure, Dean. Mechanic’s Magic.” Sam agreed, feeling a little calmer now his brother was there, but still hearing the faint echoing laughter of Lucifer at the back of his mind. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. “I think plumbers fix showers, though.”

Chuckling a little to himself, Dean shifted Sam out of the way with a gentle nudge to the arm and leaned into the shower. It didn’t take him long to turn it off and on again, only he didn’t get out of the way in time. The shower dropped sludgy goo on him in a way that seemed almost pleased with itself. Dean leaped back with a disgusted cry and a screwed up face.

“What the _Hell_?” he demanded, turning to Sam with confused eyes. His face was white, his freckles stark across his nose. “Gross, Dude!”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, the wet strands of hair tickling the back of his neck. “It did that to me, too.”

“Ugh,” Dean shook his head, apologetic eyes catching Sam’s. “I can’t fix this right now.”

An extra shot of cold spread through Sam’s chest, his breath catching in his lungs. If he didn’t get warm, and get warm now, Lucifer would be back, and Lucifer couldn’t come back.

When Lucifer was back, Sam couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy, couldn’t tell the difference between what was real, and what was a memory his mind had mostly forgotten, enough for him to function, but not like this, not in this cold. He couldn’t do it.

Struggling for breath, Sam backed away, tugging at his clothes, clawing at his own throat. He was cold, cold, cold, cold, cold… If he could just get away from the cold, but it was clinging to him, closing his throat up, dunking him under, into the darkness and the black and the laugh and the terror and the fear and the pain and the…

Warmth. Just there. Warmth on his shoulder. Focusing on that, he burrowed towards it, pressed towards it, until it revealed itself as a shape: a hand. What was a hand doing down there, with Lucifer? Lucifer had hands, but they were cold. Adam was safe, protected by Michael, and Michael’s touch burned. Nothing should be down there that was this warm, not burning, just safe. Opening his eyes, Sam squinted at his shoulder. It was definitely a hand.

It took him a few seconds and a lot of heavy, dizzying breaths, but he eventually shifted his gaze from the hand on his shoulder and up the cold-bleached arm to the face of it’s owner. Dean. What was Dean doing down in the Cage, with Lucifer? Sam opened his mouth, getting ready to beg Dean to leave, to get out as soon as he could, but then he noticed something. Dean’s lips were moving. With some effort, he focused in on the words.

“Breathe for me, Sammy,” he was saying, tone soft with an underlying bite of worry. “Come on, that’s it, just breathe. You can do it. Here.”

His hand reached out to Sam’s, gently but firmly smoothing his fingers out from the clenched fist Sam was making, flattening his palm out and placing it against Dean’s chest. With the slow, steady breaths Dean was taking, Sam managed to match his breathing. It was hard-going, more difficult than it should have been, but he managed it, only stuttering his breaths a few at a time. That was more to do with the shivers that were still wracking his frame, though.

Finally able to pull himself out of the darkness, out of the Cage, Sam looked around himself. They were still in the bathroom, grimy tiles to the left and right of him. He realised he was folded into the corner next to the toilet by the smell of it, as if someone had tried their best to clean a cesspit from Middle Ages Europe, disinfectant and human waste. Still, there Dean was, crouching down next to it, keeping his breathing steady despite the worry clinging to his face.

“You back with me?” he asked, reaching up to palm Sam’s hair back, knocking his head far enough back that Dean could see his eyes, an old trick. “You okay?”

Sam snorted at that. He was pretty far from okay. Still, he knew what Dean meant.

“Yeah,” he nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, bro,” Dean chided, letting go of Sam’s hand and patting his shoulder instead. “You ready to stand up? I have an idea for warmth.”

“Warmth?” Sam asked, loosening his curled position a little in hope.

“I thought that’d get your attention,” Dean’s voice was warm, amused. “Yeah, warmth. Come on.”

He reached his hand down, waiting for Sam to grasp it. Slowly, shivering and shaking, Sam did so. His wet-rough skin stuck and caught on Dean’s own wrinkly fingers, but their grip was firm if a little wet. Letting his brother pull him to his feet, Sam took shaky step after shaky step behind him, following him out of the bathroom and into the main room. Once there, Dean started tugging on his flannel.

“What?” he asked, mind still half-focused on Lucifer and cold and no. “Dean, no. Cold.”

“Yeah, I know, Sammy,” Dean assured, gently batting Sam’s hands away so he could continue to tug Sam’s ratty grey plaid shirt off his shoulders. “But it needs to come off. It’s making you cold, you know that.”

Logically, Sam did. Still, the idea of removing layers right then wasn’t an appealing one. Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, Sam started to help, reaching down to unbuckle his belt.

It was a little tricky, the leather slippery and uncooperative due to it’s time spent in a rainstorm earlier that evening. Nevertheless, he managed it, letting out a grunt of achievement as he unhooked the buckle and slid the belt from the loops of his pants. Dean looked down, the tips of his drying hair brushing Sam’s nose and making him wrinkle it, pulling him out of his head some more.

“That’s it, Sammy,” Dean grinned, his smile crooked, revealing his slightly-chipped canine from a fight he’d started at Harvelle’s Roadhouse years and years ago, a few months after their father had died. “Atta boy.”

“I’m not a kid, Dean,” Sam grumped, fingers fiddling with his fly, pulling it down quickly as Dean hooked his fingers under the bottom of his shirt, Dean’s rapidly cooling skin hitting Sam’s cold stomach and seeming almost the same temperature now. Dean was getting cold, too cold. “I know how to take a belt off.”

“Could have fooled me,” a wink was thrown his way, but then Dean stepped back and let Sam drop his trousers to the floor, falling easy without the belt to keep them up. Sam stepped out of them and stripped his t-shirt off, before heading to the duffle on his bed.

Within seconds, he had a fresh, dry pair of boxers in his hands and he slipped his wet ones off with little fuss. Living in such close range with Dean for most of his life meant he didn’t have much in the way of self-consciousness, though it was a little odd to be doing it now, simply due to how long it had been since they’d had to share a room long-term. Behind him, the tell-tale sounds of Dean’s own zip and crumpling material falling to the ground with a wet slap told Sam that Dean was doing the same.

Sam was about to reach for his pyjamas, always refusing to sleep without them in case he needed to be up and ready during the night, when a clammy hand on his back stopped him. Sam jumped, spinning awkwardly, and nearly fell onto his bed until Dean’s hand snapped out, closing around Sam’s forearm and steadying him.

“Easy there, Sammy,” his voice was still soothing, warm. “We’re sharing body-heat.”

“What?” Sam’s eyebrows flew up, his hazel eyes opening wide. “Dean, come on. We don’t have to—”

“Uh, uh, uh,” A finger wagged at him, and Sam narrowed his eyes at it, considering grabbing it in his fist. “Get in the bed, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam tried again, a whiny edge to his voice. He knew he sounded like a pathetic little brother then, but he didn’t care. Sharing a bed with Dean was never easy: Dean kicked in his sleep, spread star-fish across the bed and stole the sheets. Sam knew that, if he huddled for warmth with Dean, he’d fall asleep almost immediately, but that didn’t mean he’d stay that way, not in a bed with Dean.

“Get in the bed, Sam,” Dean’s voice was firmer, but definitely let Sam know that, if he really didn’t want to, he could get into his own bed too. Their eyes met, wills clashing, but eventually Sam caved. He headed towards Dean’s bed and slipped in, facing towards his own bed and sulking. “That’s my boy.”

“Still not a child, Dean,” Sam groused, burying his face in the pillow and trying to ignore Dean jostling the bed as he climbed in behind him.

“Not what your actions are telling me, Dude.”

“Whatever.”

Dean scooted closer still, pressing his hands gently against Sam’s back, before increasing the pressure. Slowly, he edged them up and around Sam’s shoulders, pulling Sam back until he fell against his brother’s chest. A hiss escaped both of them, their skin cold against each other’s, but it wasn’t long before it became bearable, then even kind of nice. Dean’s arms snaked over Sam’s arm, pinning it down to his side, before an irritated huff sounded, then the arm pulled back and sneaked under Sam’s arm, wrapping Sam into what was, for all intents and purposes, a hug. He almost made a comment about chick-flick moments, but bit his lip against it. He was warming up, and he didn’t want to ruin that.

With his other arm, Dean pulled the cover up so it was over Sam’s shoulder. Where Dean was laying on the bed, it must have been halfway over his face, tickling him, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he gave a soft puff of breath out that moved Sam’s damp hair just a little. His nose was nudging against the back of Sam’s neck, and it almost felt like a kiss was placed against the top of his spine, but before he could ask, he shook it off.

Pressed against his brother, Sam allowed himself to relax. Lucifer had slunk away minutes ago, and he could tell with Dean pressed against him that he wasn’t going to be coming back for a while. The night would be peaceful, without nightmares, and Sam whispered silent thanks to Dean for that. They might have had their differences, their difficulties, might only just be growing closer again, but Sam knew that now, with Dean by his side, he’d always be protected, always be warm. Dean wouldn’t let Lucifer get him, he just knew it. As if hearing his thoughts, Dean squeezed Sam’s side in agreement. Sam’s eyes slid closed.

He was just drifting off, surrounded by warmth and the gun-oil and car smell of his brother, when he heard Dean murmur, “Night, Sammy.”

“Night, Dea’,” he whispered, too tired to enunciate his words properly. Then, snuggling further back into his brother’s toasty chest, he floated to sleep at last.


End file.
